From my cave to my grave

On Monday night I retreated into a homemade womb with Suzanne. We think that babies listen to muffled Sigur Ros.

I make a point not to lift my feet from the ground while crossing Johnson Green. It's pure joy. I haven't fallen yet but those who know my clumsy nature know that I'm playing with fire (on ice).

I eat ants on a log almost every single day. I ran out of peanut butter so now the sunmaid raisin ants crawl along almond butter. Delicious.

Last night Sarah and I looked up "Cat using fork" on youtube.

I'm ready for bed at 9:30, but I stay up late 'cause all my friends are doing it.

Listless

I'm making a comprehensive list of my likes and dislikes. Freshly added to the list: Gender-bending photographer Claude Cahun, cold veggie ground-round, choosing desktop backgrounds, disco-ball snow, and cinnamon in coffee. Notably, I'd like to add that untangling the cord of stereo-headphones while wearing them is delightful. The hollow sound it makes reminds me of jumping into a cold lake and swimming far too deep. Today that particular underwater sound makes the top of my list of likes.

The cherry on top of my list of dislikes today is unfriendly library neighbours. We're all in this library together. And yes I know it's cold by that window and it's a friday evening, but the least you can do is crack a small smile or even a sympathetic glance. Heck, I'd settle for a smirk. I like the drawings you're doing of cells and I take pleasure from peeking at them but I don't think that warrants giving me that cold-hearted glare. And don't judge me if I want to lie my head down on my "Male Fantasies" book and nap for an hour. There are two volumes; if you ask politely you can lay your head down on volume two.

One more 'like' and then I'll leave you alone. I like reading passages that I underlined in books 2 years ago and wondering why. From Robbins, to me, to you: "Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation".

Sprinkles

I like the hands of the boy on the right. I'm listening to Zombies Care of Cell 44 right now. It's not at all suited to my sleepy brooding mood. I'm noticing that my room looks like a golden scrapbook. 'Scrapbook' without an 's' is crapbook, and 'photo' without the 'h' & 't' is poo. Soon I'm going to start calling myself a literary genius. The female John Milton. The epic blogger.